


None of My Fears are as Dear to Me

by youngmoneymilla



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Dark Steve Rogers, F/M, Fluff, Nomad Steve Rogers, Possessive Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 10:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17384873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngmoneymilla/pseuds/youngmoneymilla
Summary: After you get injured on a mission, Steve teaches you a lesson.





	None of My Fears are as Dear to Me

The gash in your side is hanging open in a gore-ridden, lopsided grin. You’re scurrying backwards, hands sticky with blood. The pain is unbearable - radiating and pulsating like a feverish bite and making you dizzy. You pray to every God you know that your innards aren’t trailing out of you right now. 

The Hand sentry who’s responsible for your current predicament is striding towards you - the shadows distorting his figure. His eyes are glowing red, his twin Sais dripping in your blood. 

_Wonderful_

You missed Hydra agents and their lack of mystical abilities. 

Just as he goes in for the second hit, he’s flung backwards, his back smashing into the wall with a sickening crack.

Steve is in front of you, shoulders wide and figure hulking. He glances back at you and then at your wounded torso. His expression transforms from irritation to horror at your current state. 

“I told you not to leave the group,” Steve hisses at you. His tone is sharp enough to sting and it makes you flinch.

“My bad,” you slur before your head falls back against the floor, the pain in your side nearly driving you to darkness.

Steve curses.

“Stay the fuck awake,” he demands before he blocks an incoming hit from the Hand sentry.

Apparently, that crack wasn’t his back breaking.

Steve is in a full murderous rage and you can’t help but, marvel at the ferocious beauty of him. After the Accords, Steve’s fighting style has gained a grittier bite. He’s less subtle, less controlled and far more brutal.

There is an anger beneath his skin that makes you think of a spiraling star. 

The Hand’s sai catches Steve on the bicep and it leaves a streak of red. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he snarls and lifts the sentry as if he was light as tissue paper, tossing him to the floor.

Steve straddles the struggling man, wrapping his hands around his throat and tightening. The sentry is scratching at his shoulders, desperately slapping at his arms.

Steve looks up and stares at you, the blue of his eyes near indigo.

You aren’t able to fully register what he’s doing, your head buzzing both from blood loss and the creeping onslaught of morbid fascination. He’s choking the life out of the man who’s hurt you and he wants you to see it.

You feel the low, burn of arousal spinning in the pit of your stomach. You wish you felt ashamed but, you don’t.

The skittering crack of the Hand’s windpipe collapsing beneath Steve’s hands breaks the tension between you two. It’s finished by the sigh of his final breath slipping between his lips. 

Steve pulls himself up, his heavy boots stalking towards you. He gingerly presses a hand to your wound causing you to groan in pain. His expression is anxious, miles away from the predatory fury that it was before.

“This looks horrible,” he whispers, gently moving your sweat-soaked hair from your forehead.

“I’ll heal,” you shakily reply “Give me a couple hours.”

You have faith that your enhanced blood coursing through your body will sew you back together. You can already feel it working overtime. 

“Let’s get you on the jet,” he says before lifting you up and cradling you against his chest. 

His lips trail against your ear – his melodic voice carrying a steely undertow as he adds, “We’re going to have a very  _long_ chat about your inability to listen to me, doll.”

* * *

The motel room makes you ill. It’s all yellowed walls, water stains and the ever present scent of mildew. Nat and Sam are in the neighboring room, they’re nearly asleep on their feet by the time you land and get indoors.

Natasha sympathetically pats your head while you’re encased in Steve’s arms. 

“You need to really work on staying alive,” Natasha tells you. She gives Steve a pointed look and continues, “For  _all_ of our sakes.”

You shoot her an annoyed glare while Steve helps you through the door to your room. 

_Such a know it all._

You do feel guilty. You didn’t exactly mean to get injured or make them worry. You simply made the wrong call.

Steve gets you to the bathroom and hoists you into the shower, carefully peeling your uniform from your body. He gets down on his knees, his thighs powerful and straining, his boots squeaking on the cheap, stained linoleum. He looks enormous in the tiny bathroom and the image floods you with heat.

_Calm down. Jesus._

Steve studies your wound, his breath fanning across your hip bone. He touches it again and you squeak from the sting. He sends you an apologetic look.

“This looks really horrible,” he mutters. You run a hand through his hair, scraping his scalp to distract yourself.

“You said that already, Steve,” you point out. 

“Shower?” he asks.

“Please.”

Steve unzips the top half of his suit so, that it falls around his waist. The muscles of his torso are on full display, moving and rolling in the weak light of the bathroom. He twists the shower handle on and the water comes out in a harsh spray. He protectively shields you from it with his arm until it reaches a safe temperature. The water runs down your body - turning everything red. The liquid swirls crimson down your stomach and thighs - flowing in garish rivulets until it drips pink. Steve is massaging your side, running his hands along your shoulders and neck. He’s still half in the shower, the water dampening his rolled down uniform.

Your wound begins to ache and burn again. The light in the bathroom goes white bright before darkening dramatically. 

“Shit,” you whisper and feel your eyes roll back into your head.

It’s only a few moments and then Steve pulls you from the darkness. He’s holding you up, his body now fully in the shower and his uniform saturated and heavy on his figure. You look up at him through the curtain of your wet hair and meet his wide, blue eyes. The water is running over his face, his hair wet against his forehead and you think, “ _Why does he look so scared?”_

He shakes you gently and you realize he’s been calling to you for the past minute.

“Sweetheart, are you with me?” he asks you anxiously.

You swallow thickly, the nauseous and dizziness from blood loss coating your tongue in a bitter tang. 

“Yes,” you breathe. “I’m with you.”

“Alright…okay..,” he repeats as though he’s trying to figure out the next best course of action.

 You’re both packed into the shower - all solid wet muscle and curved limbs. 

“Okay,” you reply back as if it means something. Maybe, you’re trying to make him feel better.

“This isn’t healing fast enough,” he murmurs. “I think I need to help you.”

You stare tiredly at him. “That’ll drain you, Steve.”

“Only for a little while…”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s the only way to help you, doll. Don’t be so fucking stubborn.”

A rush of molten heat rushes to your core and you want to slap yourself for feeling aroused at a time like this. Steve cursing just does you in.

“Fine,” you pout despite feeling grateful that Steve’s offering you this respite.

“C’mere.” He pulls you towards him, taking your wrists and wrapping them around his neck. He wraps your legs around his tapered waist and your wet calves slide along his lower back. He places you on the edge of the counter and presses his chest to yours. His heart is beating forcefully enough that it vibrates against your breasts.

He offers you a small smile before he curls a hand around the back of your neck and presses his lips to yours in a languid kiss. It’s agonizingly slow, overtaking your senses and sending you flying. 

“C’mon, baby,” he huskily whispers against your mouth. “Do it. I want to help you.”

And so, you do.

You crush your lips to his, using your powers to extract his energy. It feels like a warm, soothing rush as it wraps around you two and gently gathers what it can from him.

He can take it, of course.

You feel his vitality roll and move inside you. The lightheadedness from before has dimmed to nothing and the stinging ache of the gash in your side has disappeared. You feel your strength return in a sudden powerful hit, not unlike a bullet.

You grab his head and clutch him harder against you. He groans into your mouth, his tongue searingly hot as it wraps around yours. Your back hits the mirror and you both break apart. You already miss him.

He touches your waist, the smooth skin unblemished and baby soft. 

“That trick always amazes me.” He grins. 

You teasingly punch him in the shoulder. “Do you feel okay?”

“Pretty good,” he answers. “A little dizzy.”

You gently cup his face, running your thumb along his cheekbone.

“Thank you,” you sigh. “We should get some sleep. It takes a lot out of you.”

He stands up to his full height and looks down at you - his expression transforming into something a little dark and a little annoyed as if you’re his petulant brat child. 

And maybe you like to act that way because you know it riles him up.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he drawls. “We’re going to have that long chat I promised.”

* * *

The change is sudden. Now, that you’re completely healed and the threat of your mortality is erased, Steve flips a switch. You know you’re in for it and you can’t help but, feel the low, glimmer of arousal burn low in your belly.

“You never listen,” he chastises, dipping his head and trailing kisses along you neck, your collar bone, and finally down to each breast. His full lips find your nipple and he sucks gently making you jump against him.

His fingers find your waist and he holds you down against the counter. Your legs are spread, thighs close to trembling and your skin burns seven shades of hot.

“I’m going to make you listen,” he mumbles against your chest, just as his fingers travel to your core. He starts to stroke you but, doesn’t fully enter you. Not yet.

Much to your embarrassment, you’re so utterly wet that his fingers are already covered in it.

“Look at this,” he marvels. “Your body listens to me, at least. Already so fucking wet at the sound of my voice.”

“Please, Steve,” you beg, legs opening wider and torso writhing under his hands. You need his fingers and his tongue.

“Are you going to be good?” he asks you, a smirk curling his lips. 

He looks devastatingly handsome; his golden hair dark and curling across his forehead, the deep blush of lust coloring his cheeks.

Your Golden Boy. Your Golden God.

You’re just about to say yes when he pushes his middle finger deep inside you.

“Shit,” you hiss, your back arching into him, hips rocking against the rough leather of his suit. He has one arm curled around your back, cradling you against him as he works you with his finger.

You press your forehead to his and his breath slips across your face. It feels utterly intimate.

Steve bites down on the pulse point at your throat, the sting tempered only by the sheer pleasure coursing through your blood. He’s stroking you at a languid pace, pushing in another finger as his thumb finds your clit.

“Jesus, Steve,” you curse. His name feels like a prayer on your lips and maybe it is because to you, he’s always been somewhat of your savior.

He returns to your mouth, delivering a bruising kiss. He picks up the pace, pumping his thick fingers inside you. He begins to scissor them, stretching you wide, preparing you for his cock. Your walls are fluttering rapidly, tightening around him.

“I’m going to come,” you breathe.

“Then be a good girl and do it,” he orders.

You come hard, your eyes shutting tight and mouth dropping open. He watches you fall apart, enjoying the sheen of your skin, the breathy moan in your voice and the way your body responds to him.

Once your body stills, you glance up at Steve’s smirking face. His expression is so acutely smug that you frown and slap him lightly across the face.

He looks momentarily stunned, his nostrils flare and his lips curl back in an unnerving grin.

“Wrong move, baby,” he says gruffly.

_Oops_

He yanks you off the sink and carries you to the bed. He drops you on the scratchy, ancient sheets and makes quick work of his soaking uniform. The bedding grazes your back and you suddenly long for the soft Egyptian cotton of your old bed in the tower. 

He pulls you roughly up on to your knees so, he can reach your mouth. Your lips collide hard enough to hurt, and he uses his height and masculinity to showcase his dominance over you.

He pushes you backward, his body following. You can feel the strength of him against you. He’s all lithe muscle and throbbing limbs.

Steve Rogers is the same in bed as he is on the battlefield: every move is strategized.

You can feel his cock hard against your thigh. Your fingers wrap around it to give it a few lazy strokes, thumb catching pre-cum. He groans against the shell of your ear.

“I need you,” you plead against his throat as you nip at the tender skin.

“You want my cock, sweetheart?” he asks. “I love when you take it. Take everything I give you.”

He drives his tongue into your mouth again, his lips deliciously red and swollen. You buck your hips against his, spreading your thighs wide in an attempt to get him where you need him most.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he commands and you’re ready to smack him hard across the face with all this run around.  _Fine._

“Just fuck me, Steve,” you practically growl. You hear him chuckle before he’s thrusting into you in one swift move.

A lewd moan escapes your lips and your fingernails dig harshly into his shoulder blades. Every time Steve fucks you it leaves you completely unmoored. You’re continuously struggling to catch your breath, to meet him with every angle of his hips and pressure of his bite. His cock fills every part of you, stretching you just enough to burn and hitting the deepest parts of your body. It’s always bare and raw with Steve and by the end of it, you always feel yourself turned inside out and thoroughly unmasked.

“Did you like watching me kill for you,” he snarls. “Did it make you wet?”

“Yes-s-s,” you stutter, his fingers dragging against your inner thigh and pinching.

His hands wrap around your throat, the same hands that had crushed the sentry’s windpipe hours before.

You allow him to do this. The two of you need the release and maybe you only feel safe acknowledging your darkest kinks to each other. Within all these old, thin-papered motel rooms in various countries and cities and states, you find your safe place. 

Sometimes brutal roughness is the only thing that can make a super hero truly feel.

He’s fucking you into the mattress, his hands squeezing your throat in short bursts. 

“Look at us,” he demands. “Look at that.”

You follow his gaze to see where the two of you are connected. You’re mesmerized at the sight of his thick cock driving in and out of you. Your bodies are undeniably beautiful together – slick, sweat-drenched skin in the orange light of this ugly room. The wet sounds of your cunt squeezing his dick are lewdly reverberating off the walls causing your eyes to roll back at the pleasure of it.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “You’re mine and your cunt is mine, baby.”

“Fuck, Steve,” you groan. His voice - the guttural, rough timbre is so unlike Steve that it makes your heart stutter in your chest. The fact that he uses the word  _cunt_ nearly has you undone.

You feel another sharp wave of arousal at the fact that he only presents this side to you. This secret piece of him - the dark side of the coin - is only yours.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he commands, his fingers gripping your cheeks as he forces you to meet his eyes.

“I’m yours,” you manage to say despite the breath being punched out of you with every deep thrust of his hips. “I’m only yours.”

He stills suddenly. He looks down at your upturned face, his mouth twitching into a small smile. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says softly.

The moment seems nearly out of place in the midst of this tangled animal fucking. This sweet second is when the Steve of before, the Steve who caressed and cradled you and  _only ever made love_ to you makes an appearance. It’s a flash of the Steve before the Accords, before he had lost who he was.

“So are you,” you reply simply because you can’t think of anything else to say. He grins, catching his full bottom lip between his teeth before he thrusts harshly into you again.

He goes slow, lifting himself up and positioning your leg on top of his shoulder to reach you deeper. The ridge of his cock drags against your walls. He inches himself in and out again until you have to beg him, rather desperately, to fuck you faster and harder.

“Make me yours, Steve,” you tease and the darkening look on his face tells you that your words were just enough to make him lose control.

The thought of you being anyone but, his makes him anxious.

Steve overtakes you as he continues to drive into you at a brutal pace. The small of his back dips down, his thick thighs spread wide and knees dig into the mattress. Steve is gripping the headboard tightly as it shudders violently against the wall. You’re about 76% positive that it might break but, both of you are too far gone too care.

In fact, the entire motel could burn down around you at this point without either of you noticing.

You feel his hips begin to stutter messily against your own and you know he’s close. Ever the gentleman, he leans down and leaves a suckling bite against your throat while his other hand snakes down to find your clit and rub it furiously.

And that’s it.

You shudder against his chest, coming hard enough to see flickering stars and red haze. Your orgasm is enough to send him over the edge. Steve lets out one final, feral grunt before coming inside you, the warm rush of his release filling you.

He drops against your body and you slide your sticky arms around his shoulders, pulling him close to you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” you murmur back.

He falls to the side and drags you with him. You don’t say anything, just hug him more tightly to you, your chin hitched over his shoulder. He slips his own muscular arms around your waist, curling one around your back, the other running flat and tight along your spine until one large hand finds the base of your neck.

 You both fall into a pleasant silence. The room is hazy with sex, redolent with sin. Steve pulls the sheets over your bodies, both of you too bone-tired to shower.

“You need to stop almost dying,” he finally says.

You giggle and turn to him. “What? Too much for an old man’s heart?”

“That old man just fucked you in three different positions.”

“Such words, Stevie,” you admonish. Your eyes are beginning to droop and you snuggle closer into his chest. He smells like sweat and clean linen, his skin warm against your nose.

You feel wonderfully exhausted, the place between your legs deliciously sore. The bruises and hickeys will be long gone by tomorrow and sometimes you wish they stayed. You sometimes long to keep the marks that Steve leaves on your skin.

“I really mean it,” Steve says quietly. You crack an eye open.

“Mean what?” you yawn.

“For you to stop diving headlong into danger. I can take a lot and I would do absolutely anything – anything for you,” he says carefully, his voice heavy. “But, if one of these days, I’m too late, I’ll never forgive myself and I know the others feel the same.”

You swallow thickly, feeling a slight pang of shame and a burning behind your eyes. It’s easy to forget that there are people who love you, people who depend on you. Your life before the Avengers was so twisted with pain and isolation that love and living for others never registered.

You push yourself upward and stare down at him, closely watching his face and the way his eyes drink you in.

“Remember that you matter here,” he tells you gently. “Remember that you matter to me.”

You lean down and leave a wet, soft kiss against his temple, then both of his cheeks, his nose and then his mouth.

“I love you, Steve,” you breathe.

You repeat it over and over again, nuzzling your face into the warm, cotton-clean curve where his neck meets his shoulder. A sweet space you discovered on him during one of the many nights you spent naked together. You feel him tremble against you and you know he will no doubt make love to you again by morning – this time slow and ardent as a Blues song.

You listen to him fall asleep. His breath growing steady as you continue to tell him:

I love you…I love you…I love you


End file.
